


273 - Fluffy, Summery Walk Across the English Countryside

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Mini Fic, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-28 20:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14457453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “I love nature, so I ended up thinking about walking in the English countryside with Van when he comes back from touring, and being sweethearts that haven’t seen each other in a long time.” for vecchiasignorasMini request: Reader with hidden talents (e.g. drawing, painting, or music)





	273 - Fluffy, Summery Walk Across the English Countryside

The wildflowers stood out against the green and browns of the grass on the hillside. Daisies and buttercups and forget me nots. In his all-black attire, Van looked like a shadow as he swooped across the hill, picking flowers as he went. Every few steps he’d stop to look at his small bouquet, assessing the colours and deciding what he needed more of. It had to be perfect because it was for you, and he hadn’t seen you in so long.

You unclipped Little Mary’s lead and watched her run off as fast as she could. She tracked wide circles around you and Van, happy to be out in the countryside rather than cooped up in the backyard. She was happy to have Van home too, but not as happy as you. 

You watched him create the bouquet from a few steps behind. It was easy to follow his footsteps, let him lead the way. “You move all the spiders out the way,” you said, pushing him ahead of you. Really, you just liked to see him wander aimlessly.

“These ones are called bluebells, yeah?” Van asked over his shoulder, looking back at you. His brown hair was freshly washed, dried by the country breeze. It moved gently in the wind.

“Yeah, but they don’t last too long when you take ‘em out the ground. Super sensitive.”

He hadn’t picked any bluebells yet; they were few and far between. Standing at the edge of a patch of them, he looked down, then nodded. Mary crashed through the patch and Van followed her onwards.

Van had walked the hillside trail before. It was almost close to where he grew up. Or somewhere he’d travelled to when he was just a teenager in a band that would one day make it big. He couldn’t quite remember how he knew about the place. The place, though, was entirely memorable. It was bright with pastel colours and the sounds of birds. They flew overhead, moving north. Somewhere close was a forest, but Van had never walked far enough to find it. He’d always been afraid of getting lost and he’d only been with his mates, drunk and looking for adventure. Over a hill up ahead you could see a patch of trees though. “Not a proper forest, but still nice in there,” Van told you when he suggested the walk.

“Pudding? You alright back there? Want me to carry it?”

The picnic basket in your hand was heavy but you didn’t want to admit it.

“I’m good… Uh, what’s Mary got?” you asked, stopping suddenly and looking over at Mary. She was digging frantically and pushing her nose into the ground. When Van went close to her, she yelped defensively. “What is it?! Is it a snake?!”

Van ignored you, instead knelt down and picked Mary up. She squirmed and barked manically. Van looked closely at the ground, a beautiful confused expression on his face. Abruptly, Van jumped up and took a wobbly step back. He didn’t yell though.

“Van! What is it?” you asked again. The fear in your voice was audible to both of you.

Van looked over, the confused expression still plastered on his face. Mary was still fighting for her right to be on the ground and all up in the grill of whatever she’d found.

“I think it’s a weasel? Where do weasels live?” Van said in a slow voice.

“What?!”

You bounded over to Van, standing behind him for safety. If it was a weasel, you didn’t want to be too close. Looking around him, you could see that there was a chunk of wood that had been broken up and partly buried over time. Presumably, it was hollowed out and judging by the misplaced dirt and woodchips everywhere, Mary had discovered that too. Watching closely, you could see movement within the log house.

“Maybe it’s just a field mouse?” you asked Van.

He laughed. “How big do ya think mouses are, Puddin’?”

“First of all, the plural of mouse is mice. And you know that. Second of all… I don’t-OH, JESUS, IT’S NOT A MOUSE!” you yelled, clinging to Van and almost dropping the picnic basket.

The weasel was real, huge, and popping its head out of the log.

Nobody moved.

“Its neck is so long,” Van whispered.

“They’re like… super aggressive, right? Like, killing machines? Do they attack people? Aren’t they meant to be bad luck? Van!” you whispered back, pushing closer to him. The slight movement made the weasel twitch.

“Calm down. We’ve got Mary if it attacks,” Van replied and you could tell he was dead serious. Mary had stopped her squirming and barking though. Now that she could see there was actually something in the log, she was just as shocked as you and Van. In fact, you could have sworn she was scared too. “Pretty sure they’re nocturnal but… Mate, what you doing out here?” Van asked the weasel, the volume of his voice going up. When the weasel did not fly through the air and scratch anyone’s eyes out, Van grew confident. “Oi, mate, what are you doing? Did you wanna come on a picnic with us?”

The weasel’s head tilted side to side, then he grew bored and disappeared back into his home. You took a step backwards and pulled on Van’s shirt. Slowly, he turned and followed you back to the track.

“That was scary,” you said.

From behind you, Van laughed. “Thought that was what you were excited about? Said you wanted to see animals out here?”

“Yeah, like… cute animals,”

“That thing was dead cute!” Van squealed. Mary barked. He held her tighter. “Aw, Mary! You’ve crushed Y/N’s flowers!”

Mary ran on ahead as Van joined you at your side and handed over his slightly wilted handful of wildflowers.

“They’re beautiful,”

“Not as beautiful as you,” Van said, ending his sentence with the most cheesy grin ever. You snorted then handed him the picnic basket. It was getting heavy and he needed some sort of consequence for that cliché.

As soon as you stepped into the shadows of the trees the temperature dropped. Van weaved through the mini-forest, finding a spot to lay the picnic blanket and set up. You sat next to him and shivered in the cold.

“I don’t wanna say 'told you so’ but…” he said, handing you a cup with a satisfied look on his face. In the morning, Van huffed at your choice of a breezy summer dress. You argued it would get warm walking, especially if most of the trail wasn’t shaded. Van told you to bring a jacket. You said you didn’t want to carry one. He said you would regret it. You had stuck your tongue out and left the room. “Here. Have…” he said, taking his black denim jacket off and handing it over. You quickly snuggled it on and absorbed the warmth.

Van had offered to buy and pack the picnic. Maybe you were underestimating him, but you feared if left to his own devices you’d be eating bananas, Lucozade, and cold pies. Instead, you let him drive you around to gourmet stores and help select cheeses, bread, and fancy fruit. As Van munched on grapes, throwing them up in the air and trying to catch them in his mouth, you knew you’d made the right decision.

“Hot chocolate in a thermos, huh?” Van said. “Very mum thing to do,”

“Turns you on, huh?” you replied deadpan.

Van grinned and launched himself on top of you. “I just want ya babies, Y/N!”

After the picnic, Van laid back on the blanket and lit a cigarette. You weaved your way around the trees, looking at all the little details. Mary followed along behind you, sniffing the plants you were pulling flowers from. When you returned to home base, Van sat up and made a sound of discontent.

“What?”

“I know what they mean,” he said, pointing his smoke at the pile of flowers you’d collected.

“Why so suspicious, McCann?” you asked, starting the process of creating a daisy chain crown.

“It’s not suspicion, Puddin’, if you’re right. Gonna put flowers in my hair,”

“Yeah. Gonna be beautiful!”

“Saying I’m not already beautiful?” Van asked, looking over at you.

“More beautiful.”

With daisies in his hair and carrying the nearly-empty picnic basket, Van led you through the trees and back onto the trail. Mary’s pace was slowing, so you picked her up and carried her on your hip like a baby. The trail wrapped around the hills so you’d arrive back at the carpark and not have to double back. Every corner you turned, a new view would reveal itself. Rolling hills in every shade of green and a bright blue sky that was beginning to melt into purples and oranges and a promise of a shimmering sunset.

“Van?”

He looked over his shoulder at you, his footsteps slowing when he saw you stationary. He turned around and watched you climb onto one of the nearby rocks. It was big enough to act as a chair and table. From your small backpack you took out an A5 painting pad and your watercolour travel set, complete with brush hollowed out for water. Slowly, Van came over. He was quiet as he observed.

Van had never seen you paint before. In fact, he didn’t know you painted. It was something you kept hidden, for yourself. But, you were beginning to be more than just yourself. It was you and Van. Your lives were growing together like the ivy that climbed the trees and the moss covering the rocks.

He moved like he was trying to go unnoticed. Slowly, so as not to do you a real big spook. When he was sitting on the rock next to you, legs pulled up to his chest, a little cold but not enough to complain or ask for his jacket back, he rested his head on his knees and was content watching. It wasn’t until you finished a little landscape in your book he spoke at all.

“So…” he whispered, the wind louder than him.

“So?” you asked back.

“Never told me you’re a painter,”

“Never asked.”

Van already knew he was in love with you. All his life, he had felt a lot of things about a lot of people. It was easy for him to know how he felt about people. It was easy to know love. But then he felt it. Something more than just love. Something big. Really, really big. It was physical at first. It was a wave of hot, prickly pins and needles. It took all of his self-control just to sit still. Then, it was in his head. His vision was a little blurry, like it was moving a few seconds behind all his other senses. Van’s heart was beating fast and he knew if he tried to stand his brain wouldn’t be able to coordinate.

“You’re in your element,” he said.

You shrugged. “What do you mean?”

“You just… I don’t know. You look happy. Calm…” he tried to explain, but he knew words would never really do the job. “You’re beautiful,”

“You’re lookin’ at me funny,” you told him.

“Like how you look at me when I’m on stage?”

It was a fair comparison. Where Van on stage was spectacular energy and motion and fire; you painting was breathtaking calm and control and earth.

The painting dried and the path was taken once again. You were nearly at the carpark, Van said. First, there was the last little not-forest patch of trees. Taking different routes through it, you walked side by side but about five metres apart. Van walked bravely, crunching and kicking his way through dry leaves. In slight fear of hidden snakes, spiders, and little critter homes, you stepped lightly. Van had to stop and wait for you to catch up.

“This tree’s dead,” he told you, looking up at the giant thing. Its bark was falling off and the wood underneath was a strange white colour. “I remember it. Shouldn’t look like this, right?”

“I literally know nothing about trees, Van,”

“Me either. But I just know.”

He put the picnic basket down then. Mary ran to it, hoping its landing would result in scraps of food being fed to her. Van got one of the cheese knives out. You watched as he carved “Van,” then a badly formed heart, “Y/N” into the tree trunk.

“Don’t you think it’s bad luck writing our names on a dead thing?” you asked him.

“No. Circle of life and all that Lion King stuff, Puddin’,” Van replied, not looking over at you. He finished his graffiti by circling the letters in a bigger heart. It took a couple smaller lines to make the heart, but Van got there in the end.

You made a mental note to yourself. Later, when Van was in the shower or out on the balcony having a smoke, you’d paint the tree and the carving. The tree’s final gift to the world would be to voice the adoration Van had for you.

When the trail lead back to the carpark, Mary barked happily. She was tired and laid down on the backseat as soon as she was inside the car. Van got behind the wheel after putting the picnic basket in the boot.

“Ready?” he asked you.

Wriggling into shotgun, you Bluetoothed your phone to the stereo and put on The National.

“Ready.”


End file.
